


The Echo and The Anvil

by AmredTheLector



Category: Batman Beyond
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmredTheLector/pseuds/AmredTheLector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Batman Beyond AU set in a medieval world. His Majesty King Bruce has ruled the kingdom of Gotham with a fair but strong hand for the last 20 years. On the night of the anniversary of king's rule, apprentice smith Terrance McGinnis sneaks away from his father's shop, not knowing that danger still lurks in a safe kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birth

Chapter 1: Birth

Warren glanced up as he heard footsteps outside his workshop. The door quietly opened, though the hand that did so clearly knew the door, as its rusted hinges made no sound. Warren bent back over his work and patiently waited for the careful footsteps to pass behind him, headed for the ladder at the corner of the room that lead to the loft.

"Terrance," Warren said softly. The footsteps slowed, and a loud creak came from the floorboards. The owner of the footsteps had been distracted, and missed the loudest board in the shop. Warren sat up and turned on his stool to see his son's back.

"Terrance," Warren repeated, "what are you trying to hide from me?"

"Nothing, Dad," his son said, reaching out to take hold of the ladder.

"You're only ever this quiet when you're hidin' something from me, son."

The boy groaned, resting his forehead against one of the ladder rungs. Slowly, he turned to face his father.

Terrance was a tall boy, lean and muscled from smith's work. His coal-black hair hung down into his icy blue eyes, which always seemed slightly angry, despite the smug smile that usually played on his mouth. But no such smile was there today, and a large purple bruise had swollen one eye shut.

Warren sighed and set down his engraving tools. "Who did you get in a fight with today?" he asked, stroking his auburn mustache.

His son looked down at the floor, eyebrows knitting together as he tried to suppress his anger. "Nelson," he muttered, then corrected himself. "Lord Nash."

Warren drew in a sharp breath. "Terry. You fought Lord Nash's boy again?"

"I had to!" Terry snapped. "He thinks he can treat everyone like garbage, and everyone's too afraid to do anything about it, so he keeps doing it! And then he goes and slanders our kin. I had to teach him his manners, that just because he's highborn doesn't mean he's any better then the rest of us!"

His father shook his head. "Terry," he said, rising from his work station, and approaching his son, "you can't go on acting like this. People will gossip, it's what they've always done. You have to take the high road, you have to be better than them. Just because he insulted our house doesn't mean you should fight him. We are above that."

"I didn't hit him 'cause he insulted us," Terrance muttered, "he was slandering our patron lord, too."

"…The House of Powers…?" Warren said thoughtfully, as Terry looked away. His son had never shown affection for their new lord, so why would he defend him now? "No? Then, the House of Tan…? But they haven't been our patron since - oh. Oooh, Terrance. Son." He reached out to place a hand on his son's shoulder. "I know that you care about her grace, but this isn't your fight to be fought."

Terry slapped his father's hand away, his face turning red with rage. "He called her a whore, Dad. He said she was a common whore that let any stable boy in the highlands fuck her."

"Terrance," Warren said fiercely as he placed a strong hand on the back of his son's neck, "that is not your fight. I care about my lord patron, but he is not our lord any more. And," he tightened his grip as the boy tried to open his mouth to speak, "I care about Lady Dana as well. I know you have always been protective of her, but you need to know your place. If the Nash boy knows how much you love her, he'll use that against you both."

He released his son and returned to his work table. "She's far beyond your reach anyways, boy."

Terrance glared at his father for a moment, the sides of his mouth twitching. He wanted so much to shout at his father, but kept it inside. He turned and climbed the ladder to the loft, his footsteps heavy with his anger.

Warren shook his head and returned to his work bench. He knew that his son was still young, still trying to understand the world. But he was seventeen, an adult now. He would have to stop acting like a child, and be ready to take over the smithery when the time was right. Putting these thoughts out of his head, Warren set out to work on his most recent project once more. He was not aware that, above him, his son was readying himself to crawl out of the small window.

Terry dropped lightly to his feet, but hissed as he landed. The shock of the landing had jolted a fresh bruise on his side - one that held a remarkable similarity to the shape of Lord Nelson's boot. He clenched his teeth against the pain, trying to remain quiet. Soon he'd make Nelson pay for everything that spoiled brat had ever said. Nelson was a bully, but he was also a coward, and too proud to retaliate against a true beating, else everyone would learn that he could be bested by the son of a smith. That would have to come later, though. For now, Terry had other things on his mind - more pleasant things.

Staying low and close to the workshop's wall, Terry snuck away from his father. Once he was rounded a corner and was out of sight of any of the shop's windows, he straightened and picked up speed, heading for the city square, just outside the palace walls. The sound of cheering guided him - cheering for the festival of the king's anniversary. Well over twenty years of successful rule, with no internal struggles in the kingdom that had not been quickly put down. Terry's father was too busy crafting swords and shields for the king's army, as well as his newest patron Lord Powers, to attend. Years ago, he would have gladly let Terry go. This year though, Terry knew that his father would not have agreed, since he knew full well who Terry was planning to meet there.

There - he saw it - a swish of white skirts and the ripple of raven hair, standing outside of the square, apart from the revelers. Waiting for him. He silently padded towards the figure, and clasped his hands around her eyes. She let out a yelp and twisted away from him, wheeling around to slap his face. When she met his eyes, she froze, then smiled, then scowled again. She slapped him anyways, but not as hard as she had meant to, and the smile still lurked on her lips.

"McGinnis, the smith's son," she said in a clipped tone, "you should know better then to sneak up on a lady."

"M'lady Dana," he said, imitating the sweeping bows he'd seen courtiers use, "forgive me. I was so overcome with happiness to see m'lady once again that I couldn't control myself. You tend to have that way with people." He straightened, and gently wrapped his arms around her waist. She let her fake scowl fall and be replaced by a smile as she placed her arms around his neck.

"I had been afraid that you wouldn't come," she said.

"I would never have missed this," his replied, gently brushing a few stray hairs off her forehead. He leaned down and kissed her, gently and sweetly. She allowed him to kiss her back for only a moment, before carefully pulling away from him. Her cheeks burned red, but there was also clear sadness on her face. Terry knew the reason why. They would never be able to be together, as both their fathers were so keen to point out.

He laid a hand on her cheek, and her fingers flew up to touch it. She pulled his hand away, and held it firmly. She gave him a smile, trying to mask her hurt, while he made no effort to hide his own. With a gentle tug, she pulled him along, towards the crowds of revellers.

As the two made their way forward, a rowdy group of men dressed in motley pushed past them, shouting obscenities. One tried to touch Dana, and Terry swiftly moved so that she was behind him, out of reach of the ruffians. He shouted at the men, fully intent on teaching them a lesson the way he had taught the Nash boy, but Dana held him back. Within seconds, he could hear hoofbeats, and managed to step back just in time as three great horses bounded through the crowds. On each horse was a rider in mail and a tabard emblazoned with a soaring bird. The leader of the three was the oldest, dressed in a blue cloak, with black hair and bright blue eyes. The other two were younger, one dressed in green and the other in yellow, and both had the same coal colored hair and blue eyes as the first. They rode with purpose, pursuing the men dressed as jesters, each rider with a look of fierce determination.

In a flash, they were gone, leaving the festival-goers silent and stunned. Dana reached out to take Terry's hand, holding it tightly.

"I hate them," she said quietly, "why do they have to dress like that? Why can't they just leave the rest of us in peace?"

Terry squeezed her hand in return. "I don't know," he said darkly, "some people are just monsters. But they're gone now. The Robins will take care of them."

"I hope they do," she murmured, shivering slightly. The night air had been warm, but now a chill descended upon the revellers. Terry wrapped his free arm around her shoulder and held her for a moment. She leaned against his chest, to try to feel safe once again, then slipped out of his arms. She smiled, linked her arm with his once more, and together they walked to the center of the square.

The entire city was lit up for the night, the old and the young alike joining together for celebration. Great banners hung off of buildings, displaying the king's coat of arms, a black bat on a gray field. The king himself would not make an appearance in the city, too busy attending to matters of court, but the city still celebrated the holiday - at least, those who were not too busy with their work. It was not the celebration that Terry had come for, but he embraced it nonetheless. It was one of the few times he could lose himself.

The night grew long, and the excitement of the people did not slow until past the midnight hour. The food that people had been able to spare for the feast began to dwindle and finally ended, and those that could play instruments or knew ballads tired. Slowly, people made their way back to their homes. Dana, fearful of her maids reporting her activities to her father, slipped away from the festivities with one last kiss from Terry. With little else to stay for, Terry made his way back to his father's shop.

As he ventured back home, Terry became aware of a smell hanging over the city streets. A smell of wood, and steel, and smoke. He did not think much of it at first, as it was the smell of home to him, and there were smitheries dotted throughout this section of the city. Yet as he got closer to home, a sense of dread began to creep up his spine. The smell got stronger, and he began to feel the sting of his eyes that came from strong smoke. He walked faster, then began to run. The smoke became visible, and it was clear that it was rising out of his father's shop.

He threw the door of the shop open, no longer caring if his father knew he had snuck out that night. Smoke filled the workroom, stinging his eyes and making him cough. He made his way to the forge, and found it filled with more wood than his father ever would have put in it. He fumbled about for the barrel they used to quench steel, hefting it up with all of his strength and emptying it into the forge. The wood had been damp to begin with, smoking more then burning, and the barrel was enough to douse the few flames that remained. He stood back, dropping the barrel and coughing.

At last he was able to look around the work space. Tables were overturned, swords knocked out of their barrels. Someone had been here, someone who had torn the shop apart looking for something.

"Dad!" He shouted, reeling on the spot as he looked for any sign of this father. There was no reason Warren would have left that night. "Dad!"

Terry heard a scraping noise coming from behind the heavy work bench. Then he saw it, his father's arm splayed on the ground. He crossed the space of the shop in two large strides, rushing to his father's side. Warren lay face-down on the ground, his leather apron smouldering. Terry quickly patted out the last of the flames and turned his father over with a grunt. Warren's eyes were closed, his breathing hardly there. His father's face was bloody and bruised.

Terry pressed an ear to his father's chest, searching for a pulse, for breath, for any sign of life. Warren let out a weak moan, and Terry sat upright again to look at his father.

"It's okay, Dad," he murmured, "it's okay. What do you need?"

Warren's lips moved in an attempt to speak, but it was difficult for him.

"D'you need water?" Terry said, trying not to let the panic into his voice. "Here, let me get you—"

His father weakly grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, shaking his head. He looked to the rough wooden slabs laid beneath his workbench, then back to Terry. "Son," he managed to say in a voice barely more than a whisper. Terry waited for him to finish his sentence, but it never came. Warren's eyes went dark, and his grip loosened, his arm falling.

"No, Dad," Terry murmured, then started to shout. "No! Don't you dare… no. Don't go."

A hundred thoughts were swirling in the boy's head. Who could do something like this? And why? His father was just a smith, there was nothing of value in his shop. A few swords and axes, yes, but nothing that couldn't be found another way. In another shop. Terry's entire body shook from rage, and he let out a scream. It slowly died, as the lump in his throat cut off his breath. He felt the tears rise from his eyes as he realized that if he hadn't left, he could have helped. He could have done something, and his father wouldn't have had to die. With a shaking hand, he gently closed Warren's eyes.

He sat there for some time, cradling his father's head in his lap. He freely cried, not afraid to doing so. He ran over his last words with his father again and again, willing for time to turn back and give him a chance to fix this. Slowly, he moved his father's head to the floor, gently arranging his arms over his chest. As he did so, something caught his eye. The planks beneath the table, the ones Warren had looked to in his dying moment. They were loose and overlapped, as if rearranged in a hurry.

Terry stood and pushed the heavy table away. He knelt again and picked up one of the pieces of wood. There was a space beneath it - a hole almost two feet deep and very long. Terry had never seen it before, but it was lined with wood like some sort of box, as if it had been prepared by his father long ago. He pushed the rest of the floor boards out of the way and reached into the darkness. His fingers hit something long and leather-bound. He lifted it out, revealing a blade wrapped in leather. He quickly pulled the leather sheet away.

It was clearly a sword blade, long and heavy, ready to be outfitted with a hilt and handle. The blade had a slight green tinge to it, likely infused with spells of some sort. And etched on the blade, just below where the hilt would go when it was completed, was the image of a hand.

A hand, and the color green… Terry knew that symbol. It was the symbol of his father's most recent patron. Lord Powers, one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, after his Majesty King Bruce. Terry didn't understand. Why would his father hide the sword here? Why look to it as he was dying?

Terry's hand tightened around the blade, its sharp edge cutting into his hand. He did not care if he bled.


	2. And Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Terry's father dead, the young man suspects the act was more than just random violence. He begins to search for the culprit, only to find it may have been someone very close to him.

Chapter 2. And Death

The sky was clear, and the sun beat down warmly on the city. Terry did not feel its warm, though. He felt empty, lost and dazed and unsure where to go or what to do. He watched in stony-faced silence as the undertakers shoved dirt into the deep hole that now held the remains of his father. He was alone. Few people had come to the funeral - a murder soured the mood of their festivities. It was for the best, he thought. He wanted to be alone. Except he would have given anything to have his mother and brother there. He wanted nothing more then to embrace them both and weep. But they were halfway across the kingdom, still living on the lands of Lord Tan. Terry doubted that word of Warren's death had even reached them yet.

Terry could hear footsteps behind him, and ignored it as just another undertaker. He felt forced to turn and take notice of them, however, when he heard someone say his name.

Standing a few feet away was his father's patron, Lord Powers. He was an older noble, in his middle years, with a pinched, arrogant face and white hair swept back from his forehead. He was dressed in silk and velvet, with gold and jewels dripping from his clothing. Beside him stood a man servant, a tall, looming, dark skinned man. He was dressed much like Lord Powers, but it was clear that he was not nobility himself, as one of his eyes was pure white and blinded, covered by a horrible scar that crossed most of his face. No, he was not a noble - and likely not just a servant, either. He was a fighter.

"Terrance," Powers said again. "That is your name, isn't it, boy? Terrance McGinnis, Warren's son."

Terry swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yes, m'lord," he answered.

"You poor boy," Powers approached him and set a hand on his shoulder. His expression was that of a sad, pitying smile, but Terry felt like there was something less than kind hiding behind it. "I only received the news a few hours ago, otherwise I would have already come to you. Your father was a good man, a hard worker. Here, walk with me."

Terry opened his mouth to refuse the invitation, wanting to get back home to his father's shop and try to put it back together. But the look in Lord Powers' eyes told him that he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. He shut his mouth, and let Powers lead him away from the grave.

"It truly is such a shame," Powers continued to speak as he guided the young man out of the cemetery. "That such a brutal event would happen on the night of celebration for His Majesty. Tell me, do the lawmen have any idea who it was that attacked Warren?"

"No," Terry replied bluntly, but thought better of himself. "No, sir. They don't."

Powers tutted, shaking his head. "Truly a shame. Now, I know that it takes money to bury the dead... as Warren's patron, I would like to help with the costs."

It took Terry a few moments to reply to the offer. "M'lord... with all due respect, thank you, but I have to refuse."

The nobleman raised an eyebrow, giving Terry a hard look. "Pride is a good thing, boy, but you need to learn when to set it aside."

"Begging your pardon, m'lord, but it isn't an issue of pride. M'lord Tan - my father's old patron - already was so kind as to provide me with help in burying my father. And I'm not as good a smith as my father was, but I'm ready to open my own shop. I can make my way. I feel wrong accepting charity when others may need it more, sir." It was all a blatant lie, but Terry couldn't accept help from Powers. Something told him if he did, he would have to pay it back, and in way he may not like.

The smile on Power's face faltered for a moment, as he gave Terry another hard look. He quickly adjusted it, though. "Quite the selfless boy, aren't you?" He said with a hint of sarcasm. "Well, if you're going to open up your own shop, I may have work for you already. Your father was creating a sword for me. Nothing special, just decorative, my crest on the blade, a few spells on it to keep it sharp. I know he had begun to work on it before his death, and if it is finished, I wish to take it. If it is not, I'll let you finish it, and pay you for both his work and your own."

Terry's breath caught in his throat. He thought of the sword he had found that night, hidden beneath the floor, with the crest of the House of Powers etched into the blade. He remembered how his father had looked directly to it as he died.

"I'm sorry, m'lord," he said with slight difficulty, "I never saw a sword with your crest on it at my father's shop. I went through all the blades this morning to see if we lost any during the murder, but I didn't see one like that."

Powers narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on Terry's shoulder. Then, quickly, he released it. "I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps it was stolen."

"That may be, sir," Terry agreed, "a few of our blades disappeared that night. I have already informed the Provost, and I can add your sword to the list."

"That will be quite alright, Terrance," Powers said briskly, "I shall see to it myself. Please, let me know if you do come across it. Let me know directly, if you will, not my messenger. That sword was of some importance to me, I wish to know as soon as you find it."

"Yes, m'lord," Terry said, bowing slightly. Powers nodded, and swiftly turned on one heel and began to walk away. His manservant, who had been follow them at a short distance, looked Terry over, then also turned. Terry felt a chill down his spine at the look the servant had given him, but shook it off and quickly made his own way home.

/ / /

As soon as he returned to his father's shop, Terry lifted away the false floorboards under the workbench and removed the unfinished sword that had been hidden there. He unwrapped it and stared at it, slowly turning it over in his hands. His father had never told him about this sword. Terry had never felt truly at place as a smith, and had often tried to get out of his work, as well as having many arguments with his father. Still, his father had never tried to hide any of his work. Everything he did was left out in the open... all except for this sword. A question formed in Terry's mind - what has so special about it?

Powers had said that it was merely decorative, but what sort of decorative sword had spells put on it? Why had his father hidden it under the floorboards and looked to it as he died? Terry continued to turn the sword over and over, looking at every inch of it, when a thought occurred to him. His father was no mage - no one in their family had ever had an inclination towards magic. Rather than crafting his own magic, his father had always worked with a mage when putting spells into his craft, and he had been friends with one in particular. Master Tully, a weasel-faced, sweaty man, but a man who did good work. If Terry wanted answers about the nature of the sword, Master Tully would be the man to speak to. He carefully re-wrapped the sword and set it back in its hiding place, and set out into the city once more.

/ / /

Master Tully's home and shop wasn't far from Warren's. Terry had always suspected that, despite the mage's quality of work, his father had primarily chosen him to do business with the mage because he was so close. It was a small house, squeezed between a butcher's shop and a row of run-down cottages. Terry had never seen much of a crowd around the place, as he did with the mages closest to the palace, but he had never seen the area so devoid as it was that day, either.

He frowned slightly, but continued to the door. Perhaps everyone was too busy celebrating to need a mage. He sharply rapped the door three times, then stood back and waited for an answer.

None came. He reached out and knocked again, louder this time. There was no word from inside, no sound of movement whatsoever. He considered the idea that Tully may have been out celebrating with the rest of the city. Terry was impatient, though, and decided to try one more time, knocking even harder and calling out to the mage.

As soon as he made the first knock, the door gave way. It had not been opened, though. No one stood on the other side of it. Rather, it appeared that the bolt had never been set to lock it into place. Tully was a paranoid man, and Terry could not understand why the door had not been set if the mage had left. Curious, and slightly nervous, Terry entered the house, calling out again.

A wave of stench nearly bowled him over as he stepped inside the mage's home. It smelled like the putrid herbs and potions that most mages dealt in, but underneath it was something worse. Something rotting.

"Hello?" Terry called out, noting that the shutters were all drawn tight, and half-eaten food lay scattered on the table of the main room. It looked like it had not been touched for days. "Master Tully? Are you here?"

Terry ventured further into the house, turning a corner. Immediately, he felt repulsed by the stench, even stronger in this room. His eyes watered and he had to step back. He fumbled at a window, forcing the shutters open, allowing fresh air and light into the small house. He coughed, clearing his lungs, and looked back into the room.

The room appeared to be Tully's sleeping quarters. It was sparse, with a low straw-filled bed and a shelf of various spell ingredients as the only furniture. Suddenly, it was very clear to Terry what the underlying stench of decay had been. Lying on the bed, hands folded over its chest and mouth open in agony, were the remains of Master Tully. His skin was pulled tight over his bones, and was covered in black splotches. Terry felt sick just looking at the body, and hurried out of the house.

He threw the door shut behind him, and leaned against it, willing his churning stomach to settle. Instantly, he began to worry. What if it was the plague? That would mean he would be in danger. Except that didn't make any sense to him. None of the other houses along this street showed signs of sickness, and surely a plague would have affected more than a single man on the block. A nagging suspicion was beginning to form in the back of Terry's mind.

He pushed off of the door, and once again headed for his father's shop. Along the way, he spotted an undertaker leaving a residence, and stopped the man to tell him about Master Tully's shop, warning him to be careful. Terry barely waited for the man to say anything before setting off again at a fast pace.

When he arrived home he was careful to bolt the door and shutters before removing the sword from its hiding place. Gently, he unwrapped the blade and inspected it. The blade shimmered a sickly green, the color of bile. He had not tested its edge, but just from looking at it, he could tell that it was wickedly sharp. Again, he questioned whether it was truly decorative. He lifted the blade, testing its balance and weight. It felt like a true sword to be used in battle, not a wall piece.

Taking care not to cut himself on the blade's unfinished handle, he stood and swung the sword. It seemed to hum with power, at first softly, then getting louder, almost deafening. The metal suddenly grew hot beneath his hand, and he dropped it with a slight yelp. He leaned down and touched the blade, and, sure enough, what had just been cool metal a moment ago now felt like it had been freshly pulled from the bellows. That must have been the spells Master Tully put on it, he reasoned.

He moved to dip his seared hand in a barrel of water, when he took notice of his palm. Slight blisters were forming, but beneath that, he had been cut slightly when he held the blade the night his father died. The boy had paid it no mind, having sustained worse in a normal day's work, but now that he looked at it, he realize it was healing slower then it should have been, and the skin around the cut was still a harsh red. The cuts were small - even though he'd held the blade fast, he had had no intention of losing his fingers.

Frowning, he wrapped his hand in a clean rag and turned back to the sword. He gingerly picked it up, finding it had cooled again. He moved a scrap of leather to the center of the workbench, and cut it with the blade. He had not applied much pressure in cutting the tough hide, yet the blade sliced through it as if it were parchment. At first, Terry was impressed by his father's skill, but that feeling slowly turned to horror as he watched the leather. Gradually, it curled and peeled, turning black along the edges of the cut. The black patches started to flake, almost as if it were rotting.

Almost like Master Tully's skin.

Terry threw the sword down on the workbench and took a step back, eyes wide. The sword burned like a fire when swung, and seemed to rot things when it made a deep enough cut. Of course his father would hide such a thing, for it was no decoration. It was a sword meant to kill, and to do so effectively and horrifically. The pieces started to fall together in Terry's mind. A brutal sword, his father being killed, Master Tully being dead in a similar manner as to what the sword could do...

And Lord Powers, so eager to get the sword back.

Rage began to build in Terry's heart. His father's death had been no random theft, that was clear. And Master Tully had probably not died of a natural sickness. Something was going on surrounding the sword, and it connected back to Lord Powers. There was little doubt in Terry's mind that Powers had killed his father. The rage Terry was feeling began to boil over, and was replaced by a new feeling - a desire for revenge.


	3. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure of the guilt of his father's killer, Terry strikes out in revenge. Yet revenge proves a trickier business than he thought.

Chapter 3. Burning

Terry pressed his back against the cool stone wall that surrounded the palace, trying to force his heart to stop hammering in his chest. His breath came in short pants, almost as fast as his heart was beating. Every nerve in his body hummed with tension, and he blinked rapidly as sweat dripped into his eyes. He knew this was his one and only chance. There was little prospect he was going to walk away from this night, not unless he did so right then and there. But this would also be his only chance at vengeance. In his pain, Terry had abandoned all rational thinking. Nothing could stand in his way, not even the spectre of losing his own life. If he did, at least he could possibly see his father again in death - and if he could not meet his father in heaven, at the very least he could take the life of Warren's murderer with him to hell.

He heard footsteps approaching, and steeled his nerves, attempting to channel his concentration. This must be made quick. He could not linger, could not let his rage take too much control over him. He gathered a deep breath, stepped away from the wall, and turned the corner, coming face-to-face with Lord Powers.

"Good evening, M'Lord," Terry said cheerfully, half-bowing to the nobleman.

He looked up carefully, registering the slight twitch next to Powers' eye, and the way his scowl deepened upon seeing the boy. The nobleman wasn't alone, accompanied as usual by his looming manservant. Terry wished Fixx had stayed behind, but it didn't surprise him. When Powers began to speak, Terry straightened back up.

"Mr. McGinnis," the old man said slowly, his voice hard and icy. "I thought I asked for you to bring word to me directly, not send a messenger."

"Ah," Terry replied, clearing his throat, "I'm sorry, m'Lord. It skipped my mind." He slurred his words more than usual, sounding like any other dim boy.

"You should work on your memory," Powers snapped, then attempted to ease back into his cool and stately manner. "Very well. Have you brought me the sword?"

"Yes, sir," Terry said, shrugging a leather-wrapped parcel from where he wore it strapped to his shoulder. "M'Lord said to tell you as soon as I found it, but I'm sorry, sir. My father didn't have a chance to finish work on it. I know you said you'd pay me to finish it, but I wanted you to know as soon as I found it, so that you wouldn't worry about it being stolen."

Power's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the boy in front of him. "Thank you," he said slowly, poorly hiding the anger in his rising voice. "I'll be taking it, then," he reached out one hand.

"Of course, sir," Terry said, beginning to unwrap the parcel. He saw the fierce look in Powers' eyes as he did so, and hurried to explain himself. "I just want you to take a look at it, sir. I think it might've gotten damaged that night the shop was attacked, I wouldn't want to give you a faulty sword."

He finished unwrapping the sword and held it out by the unfinished handle. The wicked blade hummed slightly as he held it, its sickly emerald sheen glowing faintly in the dim light. He could already feel the metal growing warm beneath his hand. Looking at the weapon made him feel slightly ill, and his heart started to beat faster.

Powers stepped forward, reaching out to take the blade. Terry moved as though to hand it to the nobleman, then in a swift movement, swung the blade up to point at the man's chest. Powers halted, arms raised before himself. He raised an eyebrow, looking first to the blade, then to the boy holding it.

"What are you doing, boy?" He growled.

"I know what you did," Terry replied, "I know that you killed my father and Master Tully."

"And what do you plan on doing about it? You have no proof. No one will believe you in a court of justice."

"I don't plan on taking it to a court," Terry said. As he spoke, his voice grew colder, his face showing more and more of his anger. "I plan on killing you."

The corner of Powers' mouth lifted in the shadow of a smirk. It was clear that he didn't consider the boy a threat. He snapped his fingers and took a step back. In an instant, his manservant was at his side, moving with incredible speed for such a large man. Fixx grinned, unsheathing the sword at his hip and making for Terry.

The large man lifted his sword above his head, bringing it crashing down. Terry was no fighter, other than petty brawls with other boys, but he was quicker than Fixx, and managed to only barely dodge the sword. The manservant, on the other hand, was used to swordplay, and in an instant his blade swept up and curved in an arc at the boy. Working only on instinct, Terry raised the green sword, blocking the oncoming blade. The green sword began to hum, and with all his force, Terry knocked Fixx's blade aside. He held on tight to the unfinished handle, the metal continuing to grow hot and leaving blisters along his palms. With a shout, Terry swung the sword at the manservant's head.

Fixx was fast, readying his own sword again and catching blades. Metal slid against metal, and the men found themselves face-to-face. Fixx smiled, an awful, toothy grin, and suddenly stepped back. Terry, suddenly unbalanced, fell forward. The manservant expected the boy to fall, and he did - but, rather than falling to the ground and stumbling to regain his footing, which would have provided Fixx all the time he needed to kill the boy, the boy scrambled forward, jumping to his feet and running away from his opponent. A dark chuckle rose from Fixx's lips, thinking he had won and the boy was running for his life.

He was wrong.

Terry had seen his opportunity and taken it. Rather than risk losing his life and his goal by focusing on the manservant, he had seen that Powers was now alone, unguarded. Neither manservant nor nobleman had expected the smith boy to act in such a way. What he was doing went against the rules of combat - rules that he had never learned.

A shout started in the pit of Terry's stomach and worked its way up and out of him. He was screaming like a demon when he struck Powers, the green blade slicing across the nobleman's chest. It wasn't a deep cut, but Terry knew that with this sword, it didn't have to be. Powers gasped as the breath was forced out of him, but quickly caught it again. He straightened, knowing such a wound wasn't fatal - until a warm feeling started to creep through his veins. It spread quickly, getting worse, particularly at the sight of the wound. In moments, if felt as if his chest were on fire, and he looked down in horror as his flesh, visible through his sliced shirt, began to blacken and boil.

Terry stepped back, breathing hard, the point of his sword falling. His eyes were wide - this was a horrible vision to lay eyes on. The world stopped for a moment, the three men quiet in their terror. Then, Powers began to scream, and the world started moving again.

Terry's legs collapsed underneath himself as he felt a boot painfully kick the back of his knees. He fell to the ground, confused as to where the attack had come from. A shadow loomed over him, and another kick connected with his ribs. He looked up, and saw Fixx standing above him, his one good eye wild with anger. The manservant raised his sword above his head once more, this time its point aimed directly at Terry's heart. He brought the blade down, but it stopped halfway.

The manservant froze at the feeling of an impact at his chest. He slowly looked down. The boy had acted before he could, and the green blade was now lodged firmly in his chest. Fixx blinked, taking a step backwards. Black bile rose from his lips, and the process he had just witnessed on his lord began to act on himself. His blood turned to fire in his veins, and boils spread from his wound out. The magic worked quickly, and he was dead as he still stood. When his body fell, it was little more than an emaciated corpse.

Terry stood, shaking. He thought he would feel something, some sort of justice now that the men were dead. He only felt empty.

He had little time to dwell on these feelings, though, as he heard footsteps approaching and a voice shouting. Powers' screams must have roused the palace guards, and they were coming to investigate what had happened. A figure rounded the curve of the wall and spotted Terry standing over the body of Fixx, shouting at the boy. Without thinking, Terry began to run.

He made for the center of the city, hoping to lose the guards among the beggars and thieves that populated the darkest alleys. Yet he had not realized how tired he was, how much such a short fight had taken out of him. His palms ached from the burns the sword left, and his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest. He was fast, but exhausted, and the guards were faster. The closed in upon him in moments, and white stars burst across his vision as one of them cracked him over the back of the skull with a club. Terry struggled to stay on his feet, but was struck again in the back, and fell to his knees. A final blow caught him by the chin, and the world went dark around him.

When he awoke, he was in chains.


	4. In Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jailed and awaiting trial, Terry once more contemplates revenge. He is given the chance to make the case for innocence, but will he be blinded by his rage instead?

Chapter 4. In Darkness

Terrance slowly regained consciousness only to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. His first impression was that wherever he was, it was dark, and stank of sweat and waste. He was lying on a floor of cold, hard-packed earth. As he tried to sit up, he found that his wrists were fettered together. When he tried to move his legs out from underneath himself, he could feel a weight attached to one leg - groping in the darkness, he found another manacle on his right leg, with a heavy chain tethering him to a stone wall.

That was when the realization struck him. He was in prison, tossed into some dank and lonesome dungeon for murdering a nobleman. Quite suddenly, all of his limbs felt like lead, and he slumped back to the floor. As he lay there, he expected a wave of emotions to flood over him. Instead, he felt nothing but a cold numbness. There was no satisfaction in his vengeance, yet conversely, there was no guilt. There was only nothingness.

Some time passed - he had no idea how much - and Terry began to grow restless. The emptiness was replaced by boredom, and he hauled himself to his feet and began to pace the cell, testing how far he could move before the chain ended. He was unable to reach the other side of the cell, where the door likely was. This was not surprising. Who would let a prisoner get to the door of their cell, even when they were chained?

He entertained a few ideas of escape, but could not muster up the motivation to really put thought into it. The apathy he felt let him resign himself to whatever fate awaited him. The exploration of his cage was simply a way to pass the time.

He had been pacing when a crack of light suddenly appeared in his vision, and spread to show the outline of the entrance. The heavy door swung open and light filled the room, temporarily blinding him.

The light gradually adjusted, and Terry could see three figures standing in the doorway. The first held a blinding torch, which was quickly fitted into a stand on the wall. With the light now diffusing through the cell, Terry could make out the features of the figures more easily. The first was a hulking man dressed in dark clothing and carrying a heavy metal club at the ready. It was obvious this man was a jailer. The other two were a young man and an older man. The young man had long jet-black hair tied back from his face, and was dressed in rich blue velvet. He had piercing, authoritative eyes. The old man was shorter and less muscular, with reddish hair and mustache that were going white. Though he did not cut as striking a figure as the young man or the jailer, Terry felt the most impressed by him.

The jailer lurched at Terry and grasped him by the back of the neck with an enormous hand. He forced Terry down onto his knees, brandishing his club as if to dare Terry to try anything.

"You know why you are here, boy?" The older man asked.

"For murder?" Terry replied with a hint of sarcasm. The jailer cuffed his ear.

"You will be conducted to court within the fortnight. Do you wish to make a statement on your own behalf?" The older man continued, ignoring Terry's remark.

"Yes."

"You claim innocence?" The younger man interrupted this time, giving Terry a queer look.

"No. I killed Lord Powers and I have no regrets. I only want to tell the court why I did it."

The two men exchanged confused looks. Turning back to Terry, the old man said, "Lord Powers isn't dead. His lordship is alive and well, he accuses you of treason and the murder of his manservant."

Blood began to pound in Terry's ears. The white-hot rage he'd felt towards Powers broke through his feeling of apathy and he strained against the hand forcing him down.

"No!" He screamed, his voice cracking from anger. "No! I killed him! He's dead! He can't be alive! Let go of me! I'll kill him again! He needs to die!"

His face was forced to the ground by the jailer, but still he continued to shout. The younger man put a hand on the older man's shoulder, and began to talk. Terry quieted so that he could hear what was being said.

"I think we've heard all that we need to, Lord Provost."

To this, the older man nodded. "I believe you are correct, Highness." He nodded to the jailer. "We're through here."

At once, the jailer let go of Terry's neck and kicked the side of his face. While the boy was stunned, the three men left the room. Just as the door closed, Terry pushed himself to his knees and began to shout, begging them to listen to them. As he heard the door latch, the begging turned to screams for vengeance. He shouted until he was hoarse, and collapsed from exhaustion.

How much time he spent in the cell, he knew not. The cell had no windows, and no fresh air to let him breathe. The only bit of light that entered was through the crack where the door met the dirt floor. Occasionally, the door would be opened slightly and bits of food tossed in. All of it was rotten. At first, Terry thought only of revenge, and how he would enact it. But as the reality of his situation became clearer to him, he slowly put aside such thoughts. He had no tools, no means of escape, and he was growing weaker by the day. His thoughts turned to Lady Tan, but when that became too painful, he thought of his mother and brother. Even that became painful, and his thoughts grew quiet, focusing only on his next inedible meal.

After some time of this, the door suddenly opened, and this time, stayed open. Terry blinked at the harsh light that filled his little cell, and as he tried to rise to his feet, he was grabbed by strong hands and forced to stand. Heavy stocks were clamped over his wrists in front of the fetters. The fetters and chain around his ankle were removed, and he was shoved forward and made to walk.

He was lead by a group of four jailers out of the cell and up through a winding passageway. They moved past other cells, and he heard screams of mercy and hatred like the ones that had left his lips. His legs ached with the sudden activity of walking, but if he stumbled or slowed, he was jabbed in the back with a club.

They finally left the cells, and climbed up a set of stairs into a stone room. Terry now understood that he had been held somewhere underground. He had little time to think about this, though, as he was pushed out of the room and down a corridor, only to enter another room. Two rough tables sat in the center of it. At the far wall was a podium, behind which sat a sour-faced man, whose dress was fine enough to show he was noble, but shabby enough to indicate he was low-ranking. To the side of the room, on a great chair, sat an older man with greying hair and stormy blue eyes. He was dressed in fine black velvet, a bat emblazoned on his chest. Terry did not have to look twice to know who this man was - but he did have to wonder what the king was doing at this trial.

At the king's side sat the same dark-haired young man that had come into Terry's cell. He now wore a silver circlet on his head, and it was clear that this man was Richard, the oldest of the king's sons.

He scanned the room, taking notice of the older man that had been in his cell, the one the prince had called Provost, seated at one of the tables. When he saw the white-haired man that was sitting next to the Provost, Terry's blood began to pound again. The figure turned, and Terry knew for sure that it was Lord Powers.

A shout left Terry's mouth, wordless at first, then forming into a single word: "Die."

He launched himself towards the table, but the hands of his jailers held him back. He shrieked like a wounded animal and threw them off, running towards his father's killer. He was weak, though, and the jailers caught him and threw him to the ground.

"No!" he yelled. "No! Let go of me! I must kill him, he needs to die!"

The man at the podium began shouting as well, trying to maintain control over the room. One of the jailers kicked Terry in the jaw and he tasted blood, falling silent long enough to hear the man's proclamation.

"Well," the nobleman said, sneering at the boy on the floor in front of him. "I believe we have heard enough. The boy admits guilt. For the crime of murder and attempted treason, I hereby sentence thee to death."

"No!" Terry screamed again, once more pulling away from his jailers. This time, he did not make for Powers, but for the king. "Your majesty!" He threw himself to the floor near the king's feet. "Lord Powers is a murder! You can't trust him! Please, believe me. I am no traitor, the traitor is sitting in front of you." He tried to continue, but was suddenly struck over the head with a club. Lights burst across his vision, and though he remained conscious, his limbs went limp. The jailers grabbed him and began to drag him out of the room. He watched the king, silently pleading for help, but the king's face remained passive.

He was dragged back down to the cell he had inhabited, the stock changed for fetters, and the door closed, leaving him once more in darkness.


	5. In Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terry is sent to the gallows for murder... but opportunity presents itself in an unexpected way.

Once again, Terry was left in utter darkness, with nothing but his thoughts. Except this time, the anger he felt did not subside. He had little doubt that if he ever left the cell, it would be to march to his death, but his thoughts still churned with the idea of revenge. The concept consumed him.

The wait in darkness was much shorter this time, as far as he could tell. The door eventually opened, once again letting in the blinding light. Two jailers stood in the doorway with the stocks and a canvas hood. Behind them stood the provost. They let him slowly get to his feet before grabbing him to remove the fetters.

The Provost walked to stand before him, staring him in the eyes. "The law has sentenced you to death," he said grimly. "Do you wish to make any final statements before you meet God?"

Terry lifted his chin defiantly. "Justice will win out. I will have my revenge, one way or the other."

The Provost frowned, and motioned to the jailers. The hood was slipped over Terry's head and secured around his neck, and they made him start walking. All he saw was darkness, but he heard the shrieks of the other prisoners as he was once again lead up out of the dungeons. At some point, a strong light filtered through the hood, and he could smell fresh air. He closed his eyes - he couldn't see where he was going anyways - and breathed deep. He continued to walk with his eyes closed, envisioning some way to escape and take his revenge. A plan came to him, but it was half-formed, and could never succeed. Still, he continued to dwell on the subject. It was all he had left.

Suddenly, he was halted. He took in a deep breath, bracing for the inevitable. A hand reached up and removed his hood and he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness. He squinted, making sure he was seeing his surroundings correctly.

He had expected to find himself outside the palace walls in front of a crowd of onlookers, face-to-face with an executioner. Instead, he was in a great hall, a room more richly crafted and decorated than any he had ever seen. Banners representing a wide array of noble houses hung on the stone walls. He could recognize the fish crest of House Tan and the green hand of House Powers among other houses he had never bothered to learn. At the head of the hall sat a great stone throne, carved out of the stalagmites of some cave. Above the throne hung the black bat of House Wayne. Sitting in the throne was none other than the King.

Terry glanced to the Provost standing beside him. The man's hand clenched his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and his mouth was pulled into a grim scowl. Confusion lurked behind his eyes, which was a surprise to Terry. The Provost did not seem to understand what was happening much more than Terry did.

Slowly, the King rose from his throne and crossed the hall to join the prisoner and lawmen. The jailers and Provost bowed deeply, but Terry remained upright. The King fixed him with a thoughtful look.

"Will you not bow to your king, boy?" The king asked. His voice was soft, but low and slightly gravelly. He did not have to speak loudly to be heard, as his voice revealed all of his years and power at even a quiet volume.

"I'm already sentenced to death. Why should I bow to the man that'll let me die without hearing what I have to say?"

A shadow of a smirk flickered on the King's lips. He turned to the Provost. "Leave us," he commanded.

"Sir?" The Provost suddenly straightened, his face showing his obvious concern.

"I wish to speak to the prisoner alone. Leave us."

"Sir, I cannot leave you alone with a treasonous murderer."

"I command you to leave," the King said, his voice getting lower and more intense. "Do not make me say it again, James. I am more than capable of handling myself."

The Provost said nothing, but his scowl deepened. He hesitated, looking the King in the eyes. Terry watched in interest as the two stared each other down. The King was a powerful man, but it was clear that the Provost seemed willing to speak out against him. Once again, Terry found himself more impressed by the Provost then the more powerful nobles around him.

However, the Provost was the first to falter, and his shoulders fell with a small sigh. He jerked his head towards the jailers, and the group left the hall, leaving the King and the prisoner alone.

When the men had left the hall and secured the great heavy doors, the King turned and examined Terry. His eyes were a dark, mysterious blue, hard and old, but showing a kindness Terry rarely saw. He looked over the young man, silent and deep in thought, for a few minutes. Terry knew that he probably should have felt some sort of reverence, but all he could feel was bristling anger. Because of this, he was the first to break the silence.

"I didn't know it was customary for the King to personally see off the condemned," he said darkly. The King's eyes snapped up to meet Terry's, the old noble's brows knitting together. Terry shut his mouth quickly, but did not look away.

"Be careful, boy," the King said quietly. "Those are the sorts of words that could get you killed."

"I've already been sentenced to death," Terry shot back. "If there's a better time to speak my mind, I'd like to know."

A thin smile spread across the king's lips. It unnerved Terry slightly, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"No, it is not customary," the King replied. "But, it is not every prisoner who accuses one of my men of treason and pleads so urgently to speak to me. I must admit, I am curious."

As he had spoken, the King's hand had come to rest on the pommel of the sword hanging at his side, and he started to pace. Terry's mouth has suddenly gone dry, but he struggled to speak anyways.

"Lord Powers hired my father to make a sword. He says the sword was just decorative, but it had a spell on it that burns the flesh like a plague. My father was killed, but he hid the sword before the attack. Master Tully, a mage who worked with him, was killed by the same spell as the one on the blade. Why would Lord Powers have such a sword made? And why would the men making it suddenly be murdered on the same day, if he weren't planning something?"

"And what proof do you have of this?"

Terry swallowed. "I have no proof, but I know he's up to something. I can feel it."

"We have lawmen. We have courts. Why not go to them?"

"What would they do?" Terry snapped, gaining his nerves once more. "The lawmen, your sons - they protect us from thieves and killers, but they don't help us when it comes to corrupt nobility. Talk to any farmer, they'll tell you how their patron takes more than a fair share of crops every harvest. Or talk to any family, eventually you'll hear about how one of their daughters was defiled by a lord's son and ignored by the courts. Your lawmen keep the merchants and peasants safe from each other, but we're powerless against the nobles."

The King looked at Terry thoughtfully, but the boy wasn't sure how to read his expression. The old man turned away, looking at the banners that hung over the hall. His shoulders heaved with a sigh.

"I believe you, boy," he said without looking at Terry. Terry opened his mouth to reply, but the King continued. "There's a sickness in my kingdom, one I thought could be held in check by my sons and my lawmen. But it has spread deeper than I could have imagined. Men I once thought loyal to me, I have come to suspect of evil plots. Lord Powers is one of those men.

"But," he turned to face the prisoner, "I have no proof. Thus, they are not traitors."

He thought a moment, then drew his sword and advanced on Terry. Terry's heart began to race, though he did not let his show in his expression. The King stopped right in front of him, then flipped the sword in his hand and offered the handle to Terry. The young man hesitated, then took it, holding it awkwardly because of the stocks. The sword was heavy, the handle long enough for a hand and a half. Its hilt was formed in the shape of a bat.

"Describe this sword to me, boy," the King commanded.

Terry raised an eyebrow at the king, who simply nodded to the blade. Terry lifted the sword and examined it, feeling the weight and balance and giving it a short swing.

"It's seen its share of battles," he slowly replied, "the blade's nicked, but it's been sharpened over and over. The handle needs to be re-wrapped, the leather's starting to come loose. The hilt's a work of art, but it's too big - it throws off the balance of the blade."

He offered the sword back. "It's a good blade, but no sword lasts forever."

The King grinned again, taking the sword and sheathing it. "You're a smith's son, correct?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why I asked you about the blade?"

"No."

"Were I to ask most of my men to describe the sword, they would have tried to flatter me, or show me respect. They would have told me the history of the blade, or complimented the hilt. But you, a smith's son, make swords. You see them as they should be seen, as tools always in need of repair."

"I'm not sure I understand," Terry bluntly stated.

"You see things a way that nobles don't. You see the flaws in how lawmen work, for example, just as you see the flaws in this blade. Simply put, my men are corrupt and complacent. I need more men like you, who will question this kingdom and try to change it."

"A shame I'm to be put to death."

"Not necessarily."

"What?"

The King did not respond right away, instead looking again at the great hall. A dark look crossed his face as his eyes landed on the banner of House Powers, but it slowly faded.

"I am in need of a new sword. How long does it usually take to forge one?"

Terry paused, still unsure as to what the King was playing at. "Perhaps a day to two to forge, and a week each of grinding and hilting, if there was no other work to be done, and working without the help of apprentices or other shops."

"I see," the King said slowly, then was lost in thought for a few minutes. He slowly turned to face Terry, and pulled a key from his jerkin. With deliberate movements, he unlocked the stocks, letting them fall to the floor.

"You have one month."

Terry looked at the King with narrow eyes, massaging his wrists, free for the first time in days. "What?"

"I'm giving you time, boy," the King's face was intense. "You have one month to forge a new sword... and to find your evidence as to Lord Powers' plot. If you find it, you will be free to live your life. If, after a month, you cannot, then you will be put to death."

Terry stared at the King in shock. "And... if I try to run?"

"You will be kept within the palace, where I can keep an eye on you, but Lord Powers will not be able to find you. You'll be free to leave to investigate, but I'll make sure an eye is always on your movements. ...This is all your choice to make, of course."

How much of a choice did he have? A month of hostage life in which to redeem himself, or an instant death - the choice was obvious.

"Alright," Terry replied. "I'll have your sword, and my freedom, ready in one month's time."

The King smiled, and grasped Terry's shoulder. "I was hoping you would say that," he said. "Now, come."


	6. Fortunate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spared from death, Terry finds that his new life will not be as easy as he may have envisioned.

Chapter 6. Fortunate  
  
The King lead Terrance to a servants’ entrance on the side of the great hall, opening the heavy wooden door. Leaning against the wall just past the door was the Prince, Richard. He looked Terrance up and down and scowled.   
  
“I see he took the offer,” the Prince said angrily.   
  
“Yes, he did,” the King replied, waving a hand for Terry to go through the doorway. “Show him to the smithery.”  
  
Richard cast a dark look at his father, but pushed off the wall and began walking. “Follow me,” he gruffly commanded.   
  
Terry paused, as the weight of his decision finally hit him. He had admitted to murder, or at least attempted murder. Though he had no remorse about his actions, he began to understand that the cold reaction the Prince had given him would likely become his daily experience. Who would want to do business with a man who tried to murder his patron lord?  
  
He shook the thoughts from his head. Though he was guilty, and therefore had no innocence to prove, he could at least get his revenge. Being an outcast was a small price to pay in order to reveal Lord Powers for what he really was. He hurried after the Prince.   
  
Richard led him out of the great hall and across the palace grounds in silence. Terry did not mind, as he had never been inside the palace walls, and was amazed by what he saw. He had always known the palace grounds were immense, but now that he was inside, he realized that it held a village unto itself.   
  
The palace rose above all in the middle of the structure, made of heavy stone decorated with sculptures and banners. He had been surprised, when his father had first moved them to the capital city, to find that the King’s palace was not as delicately decorated as the holdings of House Tan, but his father had explained to him that the King’s palace was much older, and built to be defended, whereas House Tan’s castle was on the high cliffs of the coasts, unapproachable by sea and easily defended by land. The King’s palace was a target, and had to be fortified. Still, what it lacked in decoration in made up in sheer size, clearly holding hundreds of rooms, with great spires that rose up into the sky.   
  
Around the palace were small fields and gardens, pens and grazing fields for goats and chickens. Houses and shops dotted the landscape, and Terry was able to pick out weavers, shoemakers, and leather workers, among others. He had always thought the palace received everything it needed from the city and surrounding farms, but now understood that it supplemented those supplies with some of its own.  
  
He was lead away from the palace, moving back towards the far side of the surrounding wall. They passed barracks for guards and a small armory - Terry assumed there were likely more scattered in and around the palace. Richard stopped in front of a squat building leaning against the wall.   
  
“This is your new home,” the Prince said, clearly trying his best to hold back irritation. “This was the original smith’s shop. It has since been moved closer to the armory, but this building was left in case it was ever needed. You will find that it still has the bellows and forge.”  
  
Terry nodded, and walked to the little building. It had no door, only a sheet of ragged cloth hung over the entry. He moved it aside, sending out a cloud of dust. He had to duck his head to fit into the small entryway, which opened to an equally small and dusty kitchen. A crumbling fireplace sat in one corner, next to it a cot with rope supports. There was no mattress. The small room lead into a larger work room.  
  
The forge and bellows were complete and in decent repair. An anvil sat in the room, but no tools were to be found. The forge had no coal or wood, either. Terry wiped the dust from the anvil, thick enough to show the smithery had not been used in years. He wiped his hands on his trousers and returned outside. Richard was waiting for him, arms crossed.   
  
“Rations and metal will be provided to you,” he said. “Anything else you need is up to you to get. You’ll notice you must pass the guards and the entire grounds in order to get to the gate. We will know if you leave. If you try to leave another way, we have other ways of knowing.”  
  
“I have no intention to run,” Terry said, looking the Prince in the eye. The Prince’s mouth twitched with a scowl.  
  
“But,” Terry continued, “I have no supplies. I need to go back to my shop and collect them. I’ll need a horse and a wagon.”  
  
The Prince sniffed. “Then you must borrow one from someone on the grounds. Gates lock at sundown, return by then or you will be sleeping on the streets.” With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off.  
  
Terry frowned, watching the Prince leave. He doubted anyone would be willing to lend him a cart and horse without money to pay for it, and he suspected that was the point. The King seemed to have some faith in him, but the King’s son did not.   
  
However, the desire for his revenge was stronger than a brief feeling of hopelessness, and he set off across the palace grounds anyways. He did see a cart that was not in use until he got closer to the palace itself. He asked an old woman tending geese for use of her cart and mule, but she waved her crook and shouted at him until he left her alone. He was met with similar reaction from what he assumed was a lumberman.   
  
He eventually spotted another cart, hitched to a great black clydesdale, next to a newer-looking stone building. Smoke was pouring out of its chimney stack. He knocked on the door, but heard no reply. He knocked again, and heard a muffled voice shout, “Around back!”  
  
He followed the sound around to the other side of the building, which opened up into a small dirt courtyard. A dark skinned young man in trousers and leather apron was swinging a hammer against an anvil with one hand, and holding a pair of tongs, which in turn held a horseshoe, in the other. This, then, was the other smithery.  
  
Terry watched in silence at the young man finished beating the curve in the shoe, then switched out the tongs for a metal stake and added nail holes. When the young man was finished, he selected the tongs again, picking up the shoe and tossing it onto a pile on his workbench. He then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and turned to face Terry.   
  
“May I help you?” he asked.  
  
“Um, yes, I’m sorry,” Terry said, trying his best to sound like a naive country bumpkin. “This is an odd request, but would you be willing to lend me your horse and cart for the day?”  
  
The young man raised an eyebrow. “What do you want with my horse and cart?”  
  
“Well, y’see, sirrah, I’ve just moved in to the old forge as an extra smith, but I’ll be needin’ my equipment, and don’t have my own horse and cart.”  
  
The young man frowned. “I didn’t know we had a new smith.”  
  
Terry had to think quickly. “Well, y’see, my old dad was tryin’ to set me up with my uncle’s shop, away on the coasts, but then my dad died and my uncle won’t take me. Couldn’t find work in the other shops ‘round the city, but someone told me to show my swords to a noble, and maybe I’d get some private work, and so I asked ‘round and couldn’t get private work, but his highness the King somehow heard and was so good to give me work here in the palace, may his rule be ever long and peaceful.”   
  
He’d spoken quickly, hoping that if he spoke fast enough, the young man would not scrutinize over every detail. The young man watched him carefully with narrowed eyes, nodding. Terry swallowed, afraid his lie was not believable.   
  
“Alright,” the young man said after some thought.   
  
“You’ll let me use your horse?”   
  
“No. I was saying alright to the idea of having another smith around. Might make work a bit easier. If you want to use my horse, you’ll have to pay for it.”  
  
Terry had no money, not after his time in prison. He had not bathed or been allowed a change of clothes in that time, either. An idea came to him as he realized this.  
  
“Sirrah, when my old dad died, I was left in the poor house. I’ve barely been able to eat, I have no money left.”  
  
“Then you can’t use my horse.”  
  
“What if I gave you something else, instead of money?”  
  
“Like what?” The young man’s eyes narrowed again.   
  
“Sirrah, how many shoes do you have to forge today?”  
  
“Thirty,” the young man replied slowly, starting to catch on to what Terry was getting at. “I’ve got ten done, and need to clean the shop before the master smith returns.”  
  
“Let me take on half of your remaining workload for the day,” Terry suggested. “In exchange, I get to borrow the horse and cart. By my dad’s name, I’ll have it back before sundown.”  
  
The young man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, deal,” he said, holding out his hand. “What’s your name?”  
  
Terry clasped the young man’s hand, frantically thinking for a name to give. There was no way he could give his own, not after being convicted of trying to kill his patron lord. “Matthew,” he said, the first name coming into his mind being that of his brother, living far away on the grounds of House Tan with his mother.  
  
“Jared,” the young man replied. “Now get to work, Matthew. There’s another anvil and set of tools inside.”  
  
Terry nodded, hurrying into the shop. He borrowed a leather apron hung next to the door and set to work. It was easy for him to lose track of time. He had never been as drawn to the forge as his father had, but he had still learned much. When called upon to do so, he would put all of his effort into his craft, and come out with work identical to his father’s.   
  
The sun was hanging low in the late afternoon sky when Terry exited the shop and dropped a load of horseshoes at Jared’s feet.   
  
“There,” he said, breathing heavily. “Fifteen. More than half of what you had left. You can stop working right now, and have a head start for tomorrow.”  
  
Jared raised an eyebrow, then stooped down to pick up a shoe. He examined it closely, looking for any flaws. He checked a few more.   
  
“You work fast, but it’s not bad work,” he said, standing back up.   
  
“So your horse...?”  
  
Jared glanced at the steed, which had been starting to graze at weeds. “It’s the master of the shop’s horse, not mine,” he said slowly, mulling it over. “But... I suppose. Be back before sundown, or I’ll have the lawmen set on you.”  
  
Terry bowed his head and thanked the smith, then quickly made his way to the horse. It was a great black mare, old and gentle. He patted its nose, speaking softly to it as he checked the hitching straps. Satisfied that the horse was ready to go, he climbed into the drivers seat and flipped the reins, and the horse started off.   
  
He was given no trouble at the palace gates, but as he drew nearer to his father’s shop, he became worried that someone might recognize him. He doubted that his deal with the king had been made public, and did not want to be approached by lawmen assuming he had escaped his sentence. He glanced in the back of the cart, and was glad to find an old sheet of canvas, stained with oils and charcoal. He wrapped it around his shoulders and head like an old peasant, and kept his head low.  
  
His felt a pain in his heart when he rounded the block and saw his father’s old shop. Signs of the fire were still visible, the windows charred and the walls blackened with soot. The door was ajar, and his heart sank as he climbed down from the cart and entered the shop. The swords were gone from where they once stood between pegs against the wall. Any food that had been left had been stolen or picked clean by vermin. His father’s cot was broken, the mattress slashed and its hay stuffing scattered about the floor. Pots had been broken, every inch of the place looted for gold or weapons. He dared not venture into the loft. He had kept a small chest by his bed pallet, which held the few treasures he had in the world. Most of them had been trinkets given to him by Lady Dana, first little toys she had not longer wanted when they were children, and later handkerchiefs and scarves that smelled of her. He could not bare the thought of those little gifts, no matter how worthless, being stolen.  
  
He held back bitter tears and set to work, happy to find that at the very least, most of the tools had been left undisturbed, likely because they were heavy and worth little on the market. He hefted them out of the shop in a few trips, loading them into the cart. He gave the shop one last, mournful look, before setting a foot on the cart. Before he could pull himself onto the seat, however, a hand grabbed his arm.  
  
Terry wheeled around with a snarl, ready to lash out at whoever had touched him. He came face-to-face with a meek looking man, who immediately began to beg for forgiveness.  
  
The man had a long, narrow face, with a sharp nose and cheekbones. His brown hair hung limp in his face, and his smile was desperate. His dress was odd - he was wrapped in a blindingly orange hooded robe, woven with swirling black patterns. Black beads hung around his neck and wrists.   
  
“Sorry, m’lord, sorry,” the man said, patting Terry’s wrist while cowering. “D’nah mean t’ scary you, m’lord. Only wished to help you, m’lord.”  
  
Terry jerked his arm out of the man’s grasp. “What do you want?” He growled.   
  
“Nothing, m’lord, nothing. Just to help. I’m a fortune teller, y’see, wanted to tell you your fortune.”  
  
“I’m not interested,” Terry said, feeling a bit of sympathy. The man was probably a beggar, just trying to get by. However, Terry did not have the time to waste on him, nor the money.   
  
“Oh, it’ll only take a minute, sire! I can tell fortunes fast.”  
  
“I don’t have any money to pay you.”  
  
“That’s alright, m’lord, this fortune is for free.” He grabbed Terry’s arm again, and Terry threw the man off. He was beginning to suspect the man of being a thief, someone who lured in targets while his partners laid in wait.  
  
“I said I’m not interested.” Terry climbed into the cart and snapped the reins.  
  
“Oh, sir, but the future I see for you is a bright, shining one! You will be famous and rich beyond your wildest dreams!” The man exclaimed, trying to keep pace with the cart.   
  
“If that is the future you see for me,” Terry said, “then you are the worst fortune teller in the kingdom.” He snapped the reins again, and the horse picked up its pace, leaving the strange man behind them.   
  
Making the horseshoes had taken more time than Terry had planned. The sun was dipping into the horizon, the sky beginning to turn purple, as he hurried the horse back to the palace gates. When they arrived, the gates were closed. Terry cursed and jumped down from the cart, banging on the gates and shouting to be let in. There was no reply. He screamed in anger - at the Prince for forcing him to seek out the cart, at the smith Jared for demanding payment for use of the cart, at the strange orange man for delaying him even the slightest.   
  
He slammed against the gates with the side of his fist, and everything grew horribly silent. Slowly, a sound started to rise out of the silence, a sound like giant beating wings. He looked up at the sky, and saw it was black, though it has still been tinged with twilight just moments ago. The black began to dissolve, breaking apart like clouds after a storm, revealing a blood-red sky. The sound of wings grew louder.   
  
A dark figure dropped out of the red sky, throwing Terry to the ground.


End file.
